to make love
by keep my issues drawn
Summary: "Patrick just said he wasn't sad because at least now, Brad doesn't have to get stoned or drunk to make love" ―Brad/Patrick, a collection.
1. Chapter 1

okay, so i re-read perks today because flawless and i'm really excited for the film and, again, i kept crying over brad/patrick (bradtrick? prad?) and so i wrote this. i'm listing this as _incomplete _for now because i may turn this into a collection of brad/patrick oneshots & drabbles :)

i don't own perks of being a wallflower, and the summary is a quote from perks. also, this is in second person and has a few deliberate grammar mistakes to show the incoherency of brad's thoughts :)

dedicated to summer (Gerarder) as she loves perks and slash :)

* * *

Patrick's lips on yours, your lips on Patrick's.

His hands in your hair and your hands making their way below his waist.

Patrick on Brad, Brad on Patrick, Patrick on Brad, Brad on Patrick.

At first you're almost screaming because YOU'RE STRAIGHT, YOU ARE―

But you're not and you know it and you can't help that Patrick's lips on yours make the whole world disappear, that nothing else matters when he's up that close against you and _God―__  
_

.

You were so fucking wasted.

"Hey, Brad, that party was awesome, right?'

(Breathe. Relax. Smirk. He doesn't know)

"I was so wasted, I can't remember a thing,"

(Pause. Look at him. He can't know.)

"You must have had a fucking awesome time then,"

(Oh God does he know? If he knows then how does he know and who else knows?)

"Yeah, I must have," you reply

He walks away and you're still standing up against your locker, like you can't even move because you're terrified that someone will find out.

Nobody knows, you tell yourself. Nobody but you and Patrick.

You were so fucking wasted.

.

You avoid him in the hallways because you're afraid that you might feel the same things sober. Because you're not really gay, are you? It was just too much alcohol and you were exhausted and he was there and―

You know you're lying to yourself. Whenever he passes you in the hallway images flash through your head again ― Patrick on Brad, Brad on Patrick, Patrick on Brad ― and you feel his lips brush against yours whenever you spy him across the classroom and when you lie in bed at night you think of him, always him.

Is there anything that isn't him anymore?

.

It happens again the next Friday night.

You didn't mean it to happen, honest. It was just that Patrick was there and you were stoned and that's almost certainly why you kissed him again, right? It's not that you're gay because you're not. You're _Brad._

YOU'RE STRAIGHT YOU KNOW YOU'RE STRAIGHT YOU ARE―

And it's oh so easy to say that to yourself when you're alone but when Patrick's pressed up against you and you feel like your whole world just shattered and he's the only one that can put it back together it's so much harder to remember that.

You're straight. Honestly.

.

"I was so wasted, I can't remember a thing,"

(Patrick's lips on Brad's, Brad's lips on Patrick's)

"It's like the party never even happened, man, I have no memory of it,"

(His hands in your hair and then going lower and the whole world falling into place next to some sort of twisted heaven)

"So wasted,"

(Sweet words whispered in your ear)

"Can't remember a thing,"

(PatrickonBradBradonPatrickPa trickonBradBradonPatrick)

.

"Party on Friday," one of your mates yells at you across the hallway. "You going?"

(Will Patrick be there? Will he?)

"I'll be there," you call back.

(Will he be there God please let him be there)

You head to your next class, and you pass by Patrick on the way, talking loudly to one of his friends about the party.

A smile crosses your lips.

(You don't like Patrick. Not at all)

.

It's a cycle. And before you know it you're almost trapped in it because it happens every Friday. Every Friday you're fooling around with Patrick and you go to school on Monday, acting like nothing happened.

And you're getting drunk and stoned before school because it's better that way. Everything is hazy and doesn't make sense anyway ― it's easier when you can convince yourself it's because of the alcohol or weed, not because of Patrick and remembering his lips on yours and wandering hands and everything in single moments of nothingness.

You don't look at Patrick when it's not Friday night because you can't look at him and think about how much you want to be with him and how good it feels when he kisses you because you're straight, right?

And it hurts to see him when you know you can't touch him until Friday night because, God, how can you hold out that long when it's Patrick?

Maybe you're living a lie because the Friday nights just don't exist outside of you and Patrick. Or maybe it's that you and Patrick don't exist outside of Friday nights, you're not entirely sure with the booze and the drugs and _PatrickPatrickPatrick_ turning your world upside down.

It seems as though every second of every day is only there to count down to you seeing Patrick and it is agony, the waiting.

You need him. You need him there every single second of every single day, but you know that's never going to happen.

.

Summer begins and _God_ it feels good because you have no responsibilities now, nothing to do except smoke and drink to try and forget about Patrick (even though you end up thinking about him even more).

And then you hear about the party. You can't not go. It's at Patrick's house and you can't even put into words what you think and feel when you wonder what could happen there. And maybe you shouldn't be so caught up in thoughts of Patrick but you can't help it, you can't help thinking about Patrick because he is everything to you.

Not that you'd ever admit it, but you think you're starting to fall in love with him. Just a little bit.

So you decide that you'll turn up to the party. To hell with standards. You're going because Patrick is there and he's all that you want.

.

You can't stop crying.

And the thing is, the reason you can't stop crying isn't because you're upset or you didn't like it because every single moment with Patrick was heaven and―

You're crying because you're afraid. Afraid of what's to come. Afraid of the fact that you are gay and that there's no avoiding that now.

And so you won't even let Patrick hold you because you don't know what's going to happen next or whether you'll make love again or why it is that you're lying on his bed because this was never supposed to happen.

But it did.

You've fallen for Patrick and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

You pretend to be asleep as they carry you to your parents' car. You know that Patrick is helping to carry you, though, you can feel it.

And maybe you're afraid, but this is Patrick, and maybe you can put up with all of that.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

i'm finally updating! here is another, from brad's perspective, probably directly after the first part is set. :)

as always, i don't own perks, and (the majority of) grammar mistakes are intentional, to show his thought process.

* * *

Patrick, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I couldn't. I couldn't say that I love you and I couldn't talk and I couldn't do anything except cry, like a fucking girl. I shouldn't have been crying but I was. And everything I'm saying is so fucking pointless and I can't. I can't even try to begin explaining how I feel to anyone because even _I _don't know that, but I think you do. I think you know me better than I know myself.

My parents are trying to sort me out before school is back and they think I'll be rid of my _problem _by then. They have no idea why I started getting drunk and stoned all the time. And it fucking hurts, you know? They're asking me why, they're saying, 'Brad, why'd you start this?' and in my head I'm just thinking your name over and over in my head and all I can do is avoid their look and just try and carry on. Try and carry on when I'm fucking dying here without you.

Patrick, I can't do this.

It's so hard, why is it so hard? Why can't I just love who I want to love, you know? Why do people have to judge? I don't get it, man, I don't. And why is it so fucking hard to say those three words when I mean them more than anything? Because it's not because I'm wasted or drunk that I've been with you. It's not. I swear. It's because I—

I can't say it. I'm sorry but I can't. It's terrifying me.

Patrick, I'm so scared.

Everything around me tells us we are wrong, you know? And maybe it should have drummed into me enough by now but it hasn't, okay? I still want to be with you even though I'm fucking terrified. You know I am. And I wish I could be as brave as you are. I'm a coward, really—I've known that from the off. And you're just… you're everything, Patrick, and I'm nobody.

And what a turnaround that is. Because you're meant to be nobody, remember? Nobody with a capital 'N'. And I'm supposed to be everything and amazing and talented and, fucking hell, Patrick, do you know what you're doing to me?

Patrick, I'm—

Patrick, I'm in love with you.

I didn't mean to say that.

(But I meant it.)

* * *

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	3. Chapter 3

i haven't updated this in a while and i got inspiration. so this is a poem based on when brad's dad comes in and finds patrick and brad together. major trigger warning for beating/violence and major use of gay slurs. i genuinely got upset when reading this so please be careful! (also i had to put linebreaks in to keep the formatting there which wasnt my original intention but oh well) please leave a review! :)

* * *

You fucking fag. You're a freak. You're nothing.

You're no son of mine. Fucking _fag_.

And the belt comes down.

* * *

(Stop)

* * *

What the hell do you think you're doing?

You're no son of mine. Fucking_ fag_.

And the belt comes down.

* * *

(Please)

* * *

I can't believe I raised you to be a freak!

You're no son of mine. Fucking_ fag_.

And the belt comes down. Harder.

* * *

(You're killing him)

* * *

You're nothing. You're garbage.

You're no son of mine. Fucking _fag._

And the belt comes down. It draws blood.

* * *

(Please just stop you're killing him, please.)

* * *

You fucking _fag._

_Gay._

_Homo._

_Queer._

* * *

(Please god stop please don't hurt him)

(Please just please—)

* * *

See, even that fucking gay knows when to run. He doesn't care about you. No one does.

Fuckin_g fag._


End file.
